Visitation Rights
by Daydreaming-Chocoholic
Summary: "Quellish cant let his pet be strangled with his own guts, can he?" They're instructed to gun me down the second I get out of this chair and you know it."Right on que a bloody threat. It takes me a moment to realize it comes from my mouth; it always does.


All I see these days is monochrome. Grey walls, white rooms, stone hallways, metallic bars. One plan fails, and suddenly my world is sapped of all its color. Just to add to the humiliation, no doubt. Not even worth wasting colors on. Just another reminder that I hadn't been good enough. Never will be, never could be, never had a chance. Just part of that bastard's revenge.  
>From my cell I get a nice little view of the cell across from me. Well, not really. I have to stand up on my toes and peer out of the little window in the padded door, when and if they leave the lights on that is. I hate that cell. Mine and the stranger's across the hall. I hate them all, as a matter of fact. Not for germs infesting everything (they don't let me have bleach for obvious reasons so it has to STAY that way) or the lack of privacy with those ever-present-ever-on-cameras watching; or the non-existent sunlight that comes in through the windows they never bothered to build; not the bad food we're forced to eat or lack of company that could drive anyone insane (if they weren't already); not even for the retarded staff that always look at you with cold, dead,leering eyes and talk to you like you're a parasite; or the random search and seizures of anything you've become fond of (that bit of red shoe string I'd found a week ago, for example, the only color in my black-and-white world, was taken away from me by the fish-eyed staff); and not the medication that I SWEAR they're trying to poison me with, the over-sized pills that are practically forced down my throat every morning and each night until I want to puke. No, not any of that. I hate it all because it's HIM that put me here. If it were my own fault, if I'd burned down an orphanage or decided to run down the free-way ass naked waving a gun over my head, I would understand. I would accept it. But no. It's all because of him. That ghost that keeps coming back to haunt me, over and over and over again every single night no matter how many sleeping pills I steal or how many times I slam my head into the frame of the bed until I knock myself out, he's waiting for me in sleep and still there when I wake. Laughing at me. Mocking me. Pointing fingers at me. Not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough- SHUT UP! It would be bad enough if the prick would just leave me to suffer, but he had to take it up a notch.<br>Instead of leaving me to slowly die through my own tormented delusions, he's come to gloat.  
>The visitations are held in special rooms, away from the cramped cells but even further away from the exit. No one would ever escape anyway, not that these idiots wouldn't try it. I've seen people make shanks and stash them away, heard them plan for a riot, caught them in attempts... and told the workers that it was happening. I name names and point fingers on a weekly basis. Oh, they all HATE me for it. Don't think it's noble of me or that I was being a good Samaritan. I couldn't give a rat's ass if it helped out the guards. Personally I'd love to see that bitch of a secretary torn apart by the freaks locked up in here. No, not to help those 'things' in uniforms, I have much more petty reasons then that. If I have to suffer this hell hole, then so do they.<br>He's already there when I come in, already perched on one of those uncomfortable metallic chairs like the vulture he really is, toes curled around the edge of the seat and all. Baggy pants that could hide a hand gun with ease (not that he'd ever be smart enough to realize THAT, he's just too lazy to get pants that fit), not-so-white shirt that needs a good washing, dark rings around his eyes. We're still a bit alike. My clothes are no better and my bags match his, only this time they aren't from makeup to fool some girl they're from staying up night after night swearing and screaming at the walls or running from nightmares. Same hollow eyes, even if they are different colors. That's where our similarities end, though. His hair is raven black and soft. Mine, since I hadn't had a reason to color it in at least a year and a half and wouldn't have been able to if I did, was the color of shit and still struggling to grow back. He's pale and smooth while I'm stuck with burn scars and grafted skin. I'm seated, by force, in the freezing chair across from him. A lovely little metal bracelet gets snapped my wrist and its mate clicked into place around a metal ring attached to the metal table; another metal cuff around my ankle and to the metal chair. Metal, metal, metal! I'll never understand these people's obsession with it, it's everywhere! Obsessions like that just aren't healthy, cripes.  
>He doesn't even say anything to me. Just keeps staring at me I'm some animal in a zoo. I almost expect him to throw popcorn at me or something. Do zoos even let you throw popcorn anymore?<br>"Keep on staring, Lawlie. I just might do a trick." He still doesn 't say so much as a single word. Not even a 'hello'. He, of all people, is my first visitation and in all likelihood my last, and I'm not about to spend it being entertainment. "...You really did just come to gloat, didn't you? Just want to see how far I fell, that it?" I tried to cross my arms but the handcuffs wouldn't let me, leaving me looking like an idiot jerking my hand against the table instead. He still doesn't say anything and that just makes it worse. We're sitting in total silence that lasts for what feels like hours, and I now believe in a hell. The man that'd landed me here, that'd poisoned so many young minds, thrown away any detective that had half a chance of getting close to his level, that'd crushed my dreams, that'd KILLED my best friend, is right here, almost within arm's reach, and I couldn't even touch him. I would give anything for the chance to punch in that dead face of his or throw my chair at him or bash his skull into the table or make HIM OD, literally anything. I can't even take so much as a step towards him. Even if I could they'd shoot me the second I moved.  
>...God, but if I could just get one solid hit in before they pulled that trigger, it'd be worth it.<br>I notice one thing, just about the only thing I can while I'm busy fantasizing bloody deaths for the man in front of me. That ever-there protector, the brilliant inventor turned baby sitter, isn't there. Quellish isn't anywhere in site. That only proves what I already knew. The guards at the corners of the room are, as always, armed. No shock there. What really catches me is that with out his protector here, there has to be another line of defence; no way in hell would they ever let the world s un-wanted Savior in a room with a murderer, especially not with me. Instead of the tasers they usually (and daily) abuse, they've got guns. Some sort of hand gun, no idea what kind, I've never had a taste for them.  
>I smile in spite of myself and the bad mirror that sits across from me and the guns just itching to send bullets through my brain. "Shoot to kill." He still doesn't say a word, but recognition flits in his eyes for a moment. Either he gave the order himself or he heard Quellish give it. "Thought so."<br>An answer, or, a question I should say: "Why?"

"You're not wearing a leash." My smile turns into that strange grin that seems to precedes me, that icon I never meant to happen, and I tug on the loose collar of my own shirt. "Quellish can't let his pet be strangled with his own guts, can he? They're instructed to gun me down the second I get out of this chair and you know it." And right on que, a bloody threat. It takes me a moment to realize it comes from my mouth; it always does. It's no question that I hate him, everyone knows it, but strangling him with his own innards? As much as I'd love to see it happen I could never pull that off. I wore plastic bags over my shoes when I crushed the girl's eyes, disposable gloves whenever possible, brought Germ-X with me to every scene, cringed every time I stuck my hand into the disgustingly sticky jar of jam. For Christ's sake, I pulled on one of those masks they hand out at the hospital the second I found out Believe had a cold. How the hell do I think I'll manage ripping someone open and digging out their intestines with out any of that?  
>Already being on my own island of thought I hardly hear him tell me that's not what he means, and shouldn't I be smarter than that, and soon I'm tuning him out completely. I can't stand being treated like a child by this man. Considering I'm older, it's nothing but an insult. One word does stand out in the very small crowd I'm choosing to ignore, something along the lines of essential but I couldn't care less what's essential to what. I'm still playing different deaths for him, over and over, knowing full well I'd never be able to do at least half of them personally but hey, it's the thought that counts.<br>The prick goes quiet after only a minute or so. He wants answers. I wanted things, too, once upon a time. We don't get what we want, do we Lawlie? We just get a big fat 'no' smeared in our face instead. So I don't say a word and pretend to be him just one last time. Bring my knees to my chest and bit my own thumb (left one, right hand is still frozen against the table top) and make the worst imitation of his blank stare I can pull.  
>Childish, I know. He hates it when I do this, I can tell. Just the faintest traces of a scowl on his mouth, heat of annoyance thaws the cubes of ice he calls eyes, if only for a moment. This is as far as he'll go. He hates giving me satisfaction and I love making him angry at himself for letting me taste it. Just as I hate being belittled by his smug sense of self worth he hates seeing himself in my mirror. It's a reminder to both of us. You're no better than anyone else, Beyond, you didn't have the right to take those lives. Take a look at yourself, L, at what could be you in ten year's time if you keep up like you are. Reality hurts.<br>The only difference between his peeve and mine is he can punish me for his wake up call but I can't. He keeps me there all night. There's no clock in the room but I know it's about ten 'o'clock because the guards have changed. It pays to keep track of who's schedule marks what hour only in times like these. The real bitch of it is I was brought in at around four. Visits aren't supposed to go on for longer than forty-five minutes but he kept me here in time out for being a smart ass. Of course, even he's sick of it by now, so it's time to get down to business. He asks the guards to leave and rattles off information that means nothing to me when they won't go. It must be some high clearance shit because soon they depart, leaving us alone in the room to settle things out ourselves. I should have paid more attention to it! I really doubt they'd believe I was given this info, but if hearing it was enough to convince them they were wrong and go then maybe it would have been some use after all. I haven't paid attention to anything for the last two hours and focused on not beating my head into the table, I almost didn't recognize what he said as words much less try to memorize them! When I go over what I did catch though, I lose interest and calm down. They'd been protocols. Proper uses for weaponry, the medication limit they are legally able to give us here, penalty for sexual abuse/harassment/favours, which inmates/patients/prisoners are susceptible to random search and seizures; it had just gone on and on like that, no clearance for me to steal. He pretty much told them the owner's manual for the building; used them as a threats. They haven't followed a single code or regulation since I've been here and he fucking knew. The bastard fucking knew where he was sending me and he still let it happen! I don't know why I expected better from him!  
>He must know I'm glaring at him. He must. Doesn't look it, but he must. Fuck, a blind man would know, after all. "Are you going to cooperate?"<br>"You asshole! Do you have any idea the shit they put me through! What am I saying- of course you do! That s why you fucking-"  
>"I take that as a no. You would rather stay here for another six hours?"<br>Sadly, this shuts me up, silently seething from across the table.  
>God I'm so sick of silence. I suffocate in it for another bit of immeasurable time. If I wanted quiet I could have just stayed in my cell! At least there I had the freedom to get up and walk or pee... He watches me like a hawk to a mouse the whole time, waiting for me to snap at him or crack and tell him everything. I have no idea what I'm supposed to tell him, there are no secrets any more. But I'm 100% sure that if he doesn't start saying something soon I'm going to lose it. This table WILL be flipped and I don t give a fuck that it s bolted to the ground I will find a way to smash it into his fucking face.<br>"Why did you do it?"  
>"I could ask you the same thing!" You misunderstand. I flip him off, earning more silence. Not nearly as long as before, though. It s only four or five minutes before he speaks again, and for the first time during the visit , I wish he hadn t.<br>Ah. You assume a am referring to the murders, which is logical. Any idiot off the street would assume that because it s all you ve done wrong, isn t it? The glimmer of interest in his eyes tells me rage must reflecting in mine. That s wrong, of course. I know why you ve done that. You ve made that perfectly clear. Just before I explode in his face, I catch it. The light I d mistook for interest not ten seconds ago is something different- so different than what I thought. The rest of him is all sharp angles, but his eyes are so soft, so pathetic, just bowls of mush that could collapse in on themselves at any moment. Is he leaning forward? He always is but...  
>I m not speaking of fourteen months after you left the House but the action in and of itself. I ve looked at this so many ways yet nothing. Am I looking too high? Was your answer lower than my thinking? His brows are knitted together just so, head tilted half a centimeter off center. Even his keeper wouldn t have noticed, but I do. Of course I do. You had such a bright future, Jacob. The others would have given anything to have the kind of opportunities you did, and you still left. Regardless of what you believe I did that is no reason to punish yourself and innocent people, neither group being at fault for what may or may not have happened. My question, in case you ve forgotten during the time we ve been locked in here which would be understandable but disappointing: Why did you throw your life away? I don t know what s happening any more. There s the metal table and the metal chair, the metal chaining me both, and that s all I m certain of. So much screaming- is that really my voice? Those profanities can t come from my mouth, I ll admit I m crude but even I have a line in the sand. Blood. Blood? From my wrist, the cuff trying to bite it off as a pull against it. I hear a gun go off but I don t die. There is pain though, in the back of my neck, my arms, m face... beebees? Just beebee guns! That s all they have? But, shoot to kill...More blood but from my ankle now, more curses then I know that I know, shit he s getting up! I m forced back into the chair after a fun time with some tasers. God my head s so heavy... I can t even lift it now. To my horror though, I m not deaf. The next words, the last ones I ll probably hear from the man that biology calls my brother, Anthony's last words to me are perfectly clear and I hate him for it. I hate them all for it, for not lopping off my ears instead of assaulting me with metal and electricity; Lord knows it would have been more humane!<br>You had so much potential, Jacob.

Quellish is waiting for me just outside the door. He asks how things went though he was listening the whole time, shamelessly. As customary, I stuff my long fingered hands into the pockets of my ratty jeans before answering, hunched over as I always am.

He threw a tantrum. Yes. You knew he would. I ignore him, of course. Jacob isn t the only person who can tune out a scolding. Hell, If couldn t, this man would have ruined me over all these years. We leave the self proclaimed Beyond Birthday to what ever fate this institution deems fit, though I know full well how bad it can be. I suppose I must be as bad as he is. Leaving my own flesh and blood in such a hell. Truth be told I have my own grudge against him. He s older after all, he was the first choice for this life sentence hidden behind the heroic letter L. Instead of stepping up and accepting it he praised me, built me up, belittled himself, shoved me onto the stage in order to stay off of it, tied the noose around my neck. Fair s fair, isn t it?  
>I can t be this cruel to him. Not for so long. Personally I could never do anything for him...<br>Watari, I hate that fake name as much as I hate mine. go to our usual sources and leak his name. It was agreed that only criminals would be used for any experimentation concerning the recent murders of this so called Kira , and if he or she is truly able to kill with only a name and a face then the infamous Los Angeles murderer would be irresistible. After a bit of discussion, he agrees. He thinks I m being a monster, following big brother s footsteps, but it s the opposite. Taking him away from that place, erasing what I ve put him through. The kindest thing I ve ever done for him. 


End file.
